Turn Your Tears to Roses
by EveryDarkCorner
Summary: Robin is hit with Poison Ivy's new pollen. Slade takes advantage. Sladin / Dubcon / Sex pollen


Damn Poison Ivy straight to deepest, blackest, deadest hell and all her creepy bastard plants with her.

Robin staggered, rubbing his streaming eyes. How did the pollen even _get_ in his eyes? The glue on his mask was coming unstuck from tears pouring down his face. One time, he saw Starfire cry buckets over a cheesy romance movie. He'd laughed and handed her a box of tissues.

It turned out, Poison Ivy's new pollen was his cheesy romance movie.

He couldn't see a damn thing, but he could _hear_ Ivy's footsteps drawing nearer. Her boots clicked on the tarmac and, more unnerving, the tentacles of her newest abomination of a houseplant slithered along beside her.

'Poor Robin,' Ivy crooned, as if she hadn't just tossed that damn pollen in his face herself. 'You should be more careful. That's strong stuff. I made it for the big bad Batman, not his little birdie.'

Robin tracked her voice, and backed off. Where _was_ Batman? Robin saw him slink away into the shadows, and next thing he got a face full of Ivy's pollen and couldn't see _anything_. Fumbling at his belt, Robin dug out his bow staff and extended it with a click. He just needed to keep her at arm's length. To keep that plant away—

He heard the tentacle swish up in the air, and swung his bow staff round to meet it. They collided with a dull smack, and the tentacle thudded on the tarmac.

Ivy let out a soft and furious hiss. The clicks of her boots drew nearer. Robin scrubbed his face frantically, sniffing as tears ran down his nose, trying to blink his eyes clear.

'I know it isn't fun right now, but don't worry.' Ivy closed in, and as Robin backed away he hit something solid.

Brick—a brick wall.

'When the hormones in that pollen hit your nervous system,' Ivy said, 'you're going to _love_ it.'

She touched his arm, and Robin's only consolation was that if she was going to poison-kiss him to death, with all the tears and snot running down his face, it would at least be nearly as unpleasant for her as it was going to be for him.

A rush of air went past.

There was a thud, and Poison Ivy's hand slipped off Robin's arm. She didn't even yelp—Robin just heard the breath leave her in a huff, and then the thump as she hit the ground. Through the burning tears, Robin caught a flash of black.

'Did you just—' He stopped to sniff—how was there this much water in his body to come streaming out his face? 'Did you just kick Poison Ivy in the head?'

The vague shadow that was all he could see of Batman turned to look at him. 'She'll be fine.'

That wasn't a no.

Robin turned to face the wall so he could peel his mask off. 'Ugh.' The tears were sliding down the back of his throat. He coughed, bent over to spit it out, and groaned.

'She hit you with the pollen?' Batman said.

Robin grunted. 'I think I preferred the old stuff.' He straightened and turned to face Batman, and was relieved to find he could now kind of make out his cowl, at least. 'Come home to Gotham for a weekend, Robin. Take a holiday. It'll be relaxing.' He sniffed. 'Ugh.'

It was sometimes hard to read Bruce's expressions under that cowl, but that— _that_ —was definitely a wince. 'The pollen's going to get worse before it gets better.' He dug in his belt, removing a canister of clear liquid. 'Pour this over your face. It'll wash the worst of it off.'

Robin glanced down at Poison Ivy, sprawled on the ground next to her plant. 'You mean I'm going to spend the rest of the night madly in love with the insane plant woman?' Taking the bottle, he cracked it open and tilted his head back to tip it over his skin. The instant it hit his closed eyes, the burning stopped.

'Not … with Ivy specifically,' Batman said.

Robin's chest tightened. He looked up. 'Then what … ?'

'Like Ivy said, that's strong stuff. When it kicks in, you're …' Bruce coughed into his fist. 'You're not going to be picky.' And oh shit, yeah, he was definitely going scarlet under that cowl. 'It'll wear off in an hour. You probably want to be somewhere private.'

Robin stared, heart pounding, stomach sinking. Tilting his head back, he poured the rest of the bottle over his face. He handed it back with a scowl. 'I hate Gotham City.'

He was three rooftops away when he realised he was being followed.

Robin's heart launched into his throat, but he kept moving. Wayne Manor was too far away. Besides, he didn't want to lead his pursuer there. Or to any of Batman's other hidey holes scattered around Gotham.

Grappling to the next building, he swerved mid-air around a chimney, scrabbled up and over the roof and grappled onto an office block. Ducking into the shadows, he waited, watching quietly.

He tugged at his collar. It was so warm out. Too warm for Gotham.

His pursuer landed on the rooftop with the chimney and stopped. Robin's throat tightened.

 _Slade._

Gritting his teeth, Robin slipped further back into the shadows. Of course, _of course_ Slade was here. Like the cherry on top of the exceptionally shitty cake that was today. His skin tingled and he shivered, cursing Ivy's pollen. He had to get out of here—get away from Slade—before it really kicked in.

He waited until Slade's single eye was turned away, and then darted out, grappling fast. The rooftops blurred together as he ran, changing directions rapidly, twisting and dropping and rising. He knew Gotham better than he knew Jump. Robin landed, rolled, and shot to his feet already running. He darted round a corner. If he could escape Slade anywhere—

'Hello, Robin.'

Robin skidded to a stop, arms wind-milling.

At the edge of the roof, Slade stared down at him. Blocking his escape.

Robin backed up. 'Get away.'

'Robin …' Slade stepped closer, hands clasped behind him. 'That's no way to greet an old friend.'

'You're not—' Robin glanced back. And suddenly, the drop on the other side of the roof seemed much steeper than a moment ago. His vision blurred, and he couldn't see the road below—just streaks of red and white light in the depths of a yawning black chasm. Robin swayed, his knees buckling. The chasm grew deeper. His stomach swooped.

Something grabbed his wrist, yanking him away from the darkness.

'Careful, Robin. You wouldn't want to fall.'

Robin stumbled, his back slamming against something solid. Brick. Some kind of vent, or chimney. He didn't know. The roof was sliding away under his feet, rocking back and forth like a swing. 'Shit.'

Slade's grip was like a vice on his wrist. Robin blinked up at him, and the bronze and black halves of Slade's mask wavered and melted together.

'What wrong with you?'

Robin was way, way too warm. His shirt stick to the sweat on his back and he shivered. Feverish. He needed to lie down. Needed to curl up under a gargoyle on some rooftop and wait this out, like a pigeon finding someplace quiet to die.

And Slade still had hold of his wrist.

'Poison Ivy,' he managed at last.

Slade straightened. 'She kissed you?'

Robin shook his head. Everything was so blurry. And Slade's hand on him … it felt _good_. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight the waves of warmth crashing over him. The urge to … to lean in closer to Slade. To touch.

For a moment, Slade was quiet. Then,

'Pollen?'

And Robin couldn't be certain if he was imagining it, but there seemed to be a hint of laughter in Slade's tone.

'New stuff …' The words slurred together. It was so hard to focus. He was too _hot_. Reaching up, he tugged at the collar of his cape. He needed air.

'Poor Robin.' Slade's voice was low, and suddenly very close to his ear. 'You must feel terrible.'

Robin didn't even know where the groan came from. Except that he was sweating, and he couldn't seem to draw enough breath. Panting, he slumped back against the wall, his legs weak and shaky. When Slade's hand slid up his arm and cradled his neck, he had to bite his tongue to keep from moaning again.

Tracing his thumb slowly over Robin's jaw, Slade slipped in a half-step closer. And that half-step was enough for his leg to press against Robin's, and Robin bit down on his tongue so hard his vision flashed red-white, because it was that or _scream_ at the sudden pressure building in his lower body.

'You know,' Slade murmured. 'It feels worse the more you fight it.'

If Robin was even halfway sober, he'd have managed to ask how the hell exactly Slade knew that. Instead, his mind filled with a thick, dark fog. He lifted his hands, and gripped the front of Slade's uniform. And he twisted his hips and ground against Slade's leg.

The relief was instant—a flood of dopamine dragging him so high his vision blackened and he swayed. And the instant Robin slumped back, he came crashing down again, burning all over, needing—

He barely registered Slade unclipping his mask until he heard the crack of it hitting the rooftop. He caught a blur of white hair and beard and eyepatch, and then Slade's mouth pressed against his and suddenly he didn't care.

Slade's tongue traced Robin's lips, and Robin moaned and his head spun, and he ripped off his gloves so he could reach up and bury his fingers in the short hair at the back of Slade's neck and drag him down, stop him from drawing away.

And Slade didn't draw away. His gloved hands moved, rough, down Robin's body, shoving up his shirt to get to bare skin. His kisses slipped to the corner of Robin's mouth, and then over his jaw and down his throat. Robin arched his head back, gasping, and then yelped when Slade flicked the pad of his thumb over Robin's nipple.

'You like that?' Slade said.

Some faint, foggy part of Robin's mind was screaming. Bad. _Bad, bad, bad._ Get out. 'Yes,' he breathed, and moaned when Slade did it again, this time opening his mouth wide and biting down on Robin's throat.

Then his hands slipped down, over Robin's belly, and—

Stars. Crackles and stars and lights like fireworks or lightning flashing in his head.

Robin blinked, and he'd somehow wound up lying back on the rooftop, grit digging into his bare arms.

 _I passed out._

He felt faintly sick, but then heat rushed through his lower body and he realised Slade was still there, crouching over him. And Robin's belt was open. His leggings were dragged down to his knees, and he didn't remember that happening, but Slade's hand was on his cock and moving, and Robin closed his eyes and slumped and didn't think about it.

Slade leaned over, and Robin got the dim sensation of being some small animal trapped beneath a predator, before Slade's mouth was on his. He kissed back, sloppy, shuddering as Slade squeezed and stroked, writhing and ignoring the roughness of the rooftop under his bare ass.

When Slade grabbed Robin's hand and pressed it between his own legs, Robin groaned at the fresh wave of heat flushing through him. He wanted. He wanted so badly, but thinking was suddenly a labyrinth and he didn't know _what_ he wanted, but he wanted—

He fumbled at Slade's belt, fingers numb and feverish, until Slade pushed him away and undid it himself. Robin wrapped one hand around Slade's cock and the other around his own. He twisted as he stroked, fighting to kick his leggings down, to give himself more room. He was burning, and his shirt was sticking to him and his cape was choking him and he wanted it all _off_.

But Slade grabbed his legs, both of them in one arm, and bent them up. With Robin folded almost in half, he traced his fingers down Robin's thigh, then bit his glove off and pressed his fingers into Robin's ass.

Robin jerked and yelped. It was dry and tight and _hurting_ , but at the same time it sent shockwaves up his spine. When Slade moved his fingers, Robin turned his head to the side and screamed, scrabbling with both hands at the rooftop. It was sharp, stinging like a cut. But Slade bent lower, folding Robin deeper, crushing him under his weight.

'It's worse if you fight it,' he said again. 'Don't fight it, Robin.' He parted his fingers and Robin whined. Then he pressed them in deeper, moving and curling—

And it was stars again, stars and blackouts, and Robin thought he heard Slade's voice distantly, echoing like a bad movie effect.

'That's better, Robin. Relax.'

Slade lifted his weight and Robin gasped, ragged and shaking. And no, it didn't hurt so bad anymore, and the heat was still crashing through him. He reached, fumbling, for his cock. He felt so close already, on the edge of a precipice and almost falling.

Slade drew his fingers back, and something larger pressed against Robin's ass. And then it pressed inside, blunt and stinging until Robin realised he was gritting his teeth and tried to loosen them, to relax and focus on his hand and the heat and—

When he finally came, it was more relief that pleasure. Like collapsing after a marathon. He didn't even cry out—he felt wasted, torn up and paper-thin. He didn't black out again, but went almost numb; Slade's heat and movement inside him a bare, distant ache. And then, warm and wet, and over.

Slade let his legs down gently. He leaned forward, brushing the thumb of his bare hand over Robin's cheekbone. It came away wet, although Robin didn't remember hitting his own face.

'When you sober up,' Slade said, 'remember you needed this.'

Robin mumbled something back and didn't even know himself what he'd meant to say, let alone whether it was comprehensible. He closed his eyes and lay back against the rooftop, and listened to the sound of Slade's footsteps retreating.

A few minutes or hours later, the rooftop felt too hard to be comfortable. Robin sat up. He pulled on his leggings, buckled his belt, and bent over and threw up.

 _It's just the pollen._

He wiped his mouth, then yanked on his gloves.

Bruce didn't bother him when he arrived back at the Batcave, and in the manor Alfred was noticeably absent, too. But there were fresh towels in the bathroom, and just-washed pyjamas folded at the end of his bed.

Robin showered, and slept, and went back to Jump the next day, and tried so, so hard not to look over his shoulder the whole way home.


End file.
